


When Doves Cry

by maroon



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-08 06:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14099145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maroon/pseuds/maroon
Summary: Stark flashes him a shark-like smile, so like his father, and tips his chin up.Haughty, Bucky thinks severely,I am ecstatic to fuck that pride out of your body.





	1. End All, Be All

**Author's Note:**

> follow me at [@maroonedstark](https://twitter.com/maroonedstark) on twitter. criticism is welcome, ideas as well. updates will be sporadic. tags will update as i go. also, porn won't come until. i watch some great porn. i also don't know where this is going

Tony, being the last family Howard Stark has, inevitably receives word of his father dying in battle. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. He’s been groomed to take Howard’s place from a young age, and he’s more than capable to step up to bat when time does come, but now that he’s staring down at the now blotted ink of the letter, wet from his tears and crumpled by his own hands, he feels so inadequate— his father was a great monarch, but still, he died in the hands of relentless enemies, enemies Tony has no experience to fight against.

 

He’s not so naïve to believe that his father might live a long, prosperous life, but _god_ , why did he have to leave everything to Tony just as they’ve _lost_?

 

Jarvis puts a hand on his shoulder. “Sir,” he says softly, and Tony squeezes his eyes shut, more tears escaping his eyes and dripping onto the letter. He’s to bury it alongside his mother— Tony is sure that Howard has no body left to be buried. The Winter Soldier is known for his brutal practices on enemy carcasses. Tony looks up at the head of his household, and blinks back more tears when he sees the redness Jarvis’ nose has taken, his lips pulled into a taut line.

 

He curls his fingers around the bunching of fabric by his leg, his dressing skirts draped limply in front of him. Jarvis presses the pads of his fingers insistently against his shoulder, “Sir, they will be storming the mansion if we do not make a decision soon.” he says tightly, like he can’t bear even thinking about it, and Tony whips his head up at this.

 

“Storming? We have no business with them anymore,” he asks belatedly, he picks himself up from his seat and hitches his skirts up, he knows it’s stupid of him to think that just because the Barneses killed his father means they would leave his—now Tony’s— kingdom alone.

 

He breathes deeply as he lets go of his skirts, flattening it down, the only sign of restlessness and anxiety he is letting himself have, “Call Obadiah; we need a plan for offense _now_ ,”

 

Jarvis dips his head low, “Yes, Sir.” And with that, he goes as quickly as he came, and Tony’s heart thumps inside his chest. He looks out the window, the vast expanse of grass looking a bit dull this time of year. He could almost hear the hooves giddying up the concrete slabs of his home; he has no experience with war. He’s been born into it, but Howard and his mother has always hidden him well away from the public and its apparent tendency to resort to violence. But now that his father is gone, he is thrust into this face-first, and he has nothing left to do but protect his subjects.

 

He changes into his trousers and a loose hunting shirt, a garment once owned by his late mother, his riding boots already tight against his legs. His hair hangs in its traditional war braid against his back, his fingers twitching against the sword at his hip. _Viernes_ , his rapier, sits heavily against his hip, like the impending war that is now his heavy against his shoulders.

 

Jarvis materialises by his door, bowing lightly before falling into step with his now-king. Obadiah is sure to be waiting at the council room— as the Prime Minister, he is tasked with helping Tony, but Tony has always had reservations about the man. To rely on him now would mean to rely on the man who relinquished help the moment his father, the deceased king, had showed signs of failing to win this infernal war in between the Starks and the Barneses. He rubs at his chest inconspicuously; he’s nervous and horrified of the events that will transpire.

 

If their plans of storming the castle is well on the way, then they’ve already lost. And Tony’s job is to protect the assets of the kingdom.

 

Obadiah huffs and turns when Tony enters the room, hands tugging on the sleeve of his court uniform, bowing when Tony comes to stop at the seat meant for his father. Jarvis pulls out the chair for him, but Tony shakes his head, gripping _Viernes_ against her hilt tightly.

 

“We will be surrendering,” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, and he sees the council made up of ten old men rise in riot, speaking in disrespectful measures. He is not his father— he knows when they’ve lost. They’ve lost a long time ago, before his father went to war for one last time, leaving his mother exposed and vulnerable for anything and anyone to kill. If there’s one thing Tony’s learned from his mother, the same Queen and knight that had protected Howard Stark with all that she is, it’s that one should know when to lower themselves when need be, but servile, she was not.

 

His father abused that, and his mother didn’t see through it— love both made them weak.

 

Tony can’t say he won’t follow the same path his parents forged for him, but what his kingdom needs now is altruism; the same compassion his mother once held, and the same diplomatic stance his father was so well known for.

 

There is no time for his father’s greed or bloodlust, nor his mother’s blind complicity.

 

Tony swallows around a lump in his throat, “We must send word to the Lord Barnes, to organize a treaty between our families,” he says tightly, no room for any more words to be exchanged. He’s no stranger to pleading; oh, how he pled for his father to come home, or for his mother to stay alive until help came. He wasn’t granted that mercy— but he’ll be damned if he let his kingdom suffer under the rule of brutes such as the Barneses.

 

And he _knows_ of the Barneses; a household name that puts people at unease, a name that is so synonymous to winter and death— his father had always been fearful of the name, and Tony had read… well, and _seen_ , because he is no stranger to war and death, about their brutality on the battlefield, as quick and harsh as winter winds.

 

One of the councilmen makes an affronted noise, “My Liege,” he starts, in that soothing voice that would have worked on Tony was he a young tot with milk still staining his lip, “We must fight— it’s what your father would have wanted—”

 

“My father was a power-hungry bastard that brought our kingdom to its knees,” he says coldly, elegantly, because his father _is_ , “and now that I am proposing that we bargain for our freedom at a price, you speak to me as if I am a child?” he asks incredulously, his teeth bared and his grip on _Viernes_ tightening even more.

 

The council man shivers from where he stands, and the rest of the _cacafuego_ that made up his father’s courtroom fell into a hush of silence, staring at their king. The youngest king they’ll ever have, and if Tony is right about all of his insinuations, the youngest Stark to be murdered or married off to one of them in hopes of them controlling the kingdom.

 

 _Idiots_.

 

 _Viernes_ seems to sing him her assent, and he almost smiles, but instead, he stares them all down. Jarvis cuts an intimidating figure beside his cathedra, and if their kingdom weren’t surrendering, he’d probably be proud of what he’s done.

 

Obadiah clears his throat, “The King,” he says slowly, “is correct.”

 

Tony swivels his head towards Obadiah, who is glibly staring outside the window, where smoke has manifested over the hills before the castle. Tony shakes his head and turns back to the gaggle of old men his father called ‘useful’. He doesn’t trust Obadiah, not one bit. But that man’s word is important to these geriatric farts than Tony’s, so he’s going to let it go.

 

But they have to remember that Tony Stark is still _king_ , no matter the circumstances are. He could very well be losing his head come morning, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s the last rightful heir to the throne.

 

They had used his weapons and now, they would have to deal with him at the head of their kingdoms. He may be inexperienced but he’s still the son of Maria and Howard Stark. That alone gives him the rapport he needs to rule a kingdom— though he doesn’t like it, riding on his parent’s names, it’s the only thing he has going for him. Before all this, he’d been sheltered, only knowing of the world through books and the rose-tinted fables his ladies-in-waiting give him.

 

Though he’s never been blind to what has transpired outside his castle walls, _this_ is a little bit different than that.

 

Jarvis is a solid line of confident warmth on his side, and his scabbard sings strongly by his hip.

 

“Send word. _Now_.” Tony growls, and the squire sitting off to the side jolts and sprints off.

 

The young King leans against his cathedra, legs crossed elegantly and his chin resting lazily on his palm as his court tries to make sense of what exactly he’s done, but Tony _knows_ he is right, no matter what they say. Defeat is defeat, and with their soldiers fatally wounded and unable to fight, they won’t be able to orchestrate an attack against the Barneses.

 

They’ve already lost— and Tony is smart enough to use that to his advantage.

**

       

“Bucky,” Steve runs up to the man dressed in black, arms thickened and corded with muscles and scars, new ones and old, wheezing all the while, and if his brother wasn’t such a big lump of muscles now, Bucky would be terrified for him. His brother’s blue eyes peer up at him as Steve clasps at his knees, gathering his breath and wits about him.

 

Bucky turns from the war table and faces his brother fully.

 

“There’s a messenger,” he says in a rush, and Bucky furrows his eyebrows at this, casting a look at his general and his council, who, in turn, tilt their heads in confusion. “From the Starks,” he supplies, and Bucky fights off a smile immediately, asking for the messenger to be brought in.

 

The messenger is small and sturdy looking, and Bucky is surprised to find a rapier by her hip, her red hair pulled into a tight war braid. She looks more like a lady-in-waiting than anything; maybe the Stark heir’s lady-in-waiting.

 

Bucky watches as the woman steps inside enemy lines, her face carefully blank and never once betraying how she feels. His faction has already won against the Starks— it’s just a matter of when to storm the castle and overthrow their throne. But now that it’s been made privy to the Barneses that the famed Stark heir has taken seat, it’s been a hot topic of debate between the members of his faction.

 

On the one hand, they want him to completely overthrow their monarchy and make the Stark kingdom into their colony, but Bucky has argued against it— they have no use for a disobedient colony, no matter how rich. It’ll only take time and effort to reform a sovereign like that. Time and effort that has long since left Bucky. And on the other hand, which is the Stark’s—coming from this tiny woman before him, her armour so obviously ill fitted on her body— is that they should form some kind of accord between their factions.

 

 _Maybe_ , Bucky thinks as he looks at the woman, who hasn’t introduced herself. _It would be very satisfying to see the new Stark monarch twitch under his thumb_.

 

The thought sends a thrill up Bucky’s spine.

 

“Sire,” the woman says amicably, though her tone dark and unbending, “The King has extended an invitation to the castle to create a treaty,”

 

His metal arm twitches at the need to smack the blank look off this woman’s face.

 

 _Extended an invitation_ — it’s laughable, how the Starks so want to keep their dignity even in the face of the men who toppled their whole empire. He still remembers how Howard Stark begged for mercy under his arm. It’ll keep him satiated for the rest of his miserable life.

 

Bucky crosses his arms and takes one step forward to the woman, mind turning in thought. If he were to accept the invitation, they’d be putting themselves in a vulnerable position. Bucky knew Howard— his spineless ways of war, hiding behind deadly weaponry (the wild glint of their swords still make Bucky pause before he guts them alive) and harsh diplomacies, but he does not know his heir. All he knows is that the Stark heir is rumoured to be most gorgeous, like their mother. He still remembers the renowned balls held in the name of the heir, though never presented themself.

 

If anything, Bucky wanted to storm the castle to happen upon the ‘beauty’ of this heir.

 

Bucky sniffs and turns to his faction, who stares back at him with inquisitive eyes. Steve is quiet, and his face is somber as it has been during the duration of this war, eyes staring straight at Bucky. His brother doesn’t trust the Starks—though, Bucky is surprised there is anyone who would— and would rather see to the complete extinction of the line, but Bucky does see potential within a younger, naive, new monarch such as the new King.

 

Without turning to the messenger, he leans on the now cleared war table, knowing full well that this woman, obviously not a knight or trained to fight nor learn the ways of a war, couldn’t decipher what each piece meant even if it meant that her life was dependent on it. He drags the tips of his metal fingers atop the tallest piece on the table, meant to represent the Queen, but now it only represents another faceless, dispensable rank. “Tell the new King to meet us before the kingdom gates. They will ride with us into the castle,”

 

The woman seems affronted by this, cobalt eyes sharpening in the stark sunlight pouring through the tent’s flaps. But nonetheless, she nods tightly, before Steve escorts her outside once more. Just like her new King, she is in no position to decline. Bucky could just as well cut her head off and storm the castle without much resistance. Bucky watches as the woman hitches herself up on a dark brown steed, the horse whinnying in response to her rider’s distress.

 

They watch her go until the horse is but a speck in the burnt grass, that red hair blending with the small embers that still glows.

 

Bucky clenches his fist.

 

That night is filled with merry-making.

 

One of his knights, a formidable woman named Natasha, hailing from the Northern Isles. He met her at one of his father’s greater continental meetings, and there, he also met Howard Stark, too. Arrogant, dark-eyed, and snake-tongued. Their father had never been a man charmed by the king. Howard, then, had been more… _more_. He’d been bolder, more courageous, though less of a snake than he was before he killed Bucky’s father in cold blood, claiming that his father had been first to attack him.

 

Bucky doesn’t care about what happened. He’s already killed Howard Stark with his bare hands. And if he were so inclined, he’d stop the Stark reign by choking Stark’s only borne heir with his own hands, too.

 

Natasha crosses her arms as she surveys the merry-making, eyes dark and knowing.

 

“What do you think?” he asks quietly, and the woman flicks her eyes to him, before lifting one muscled shoulder in a gentle shrug. She’s always been the more level headed between the three of them—him, Steve and Natasha, respectively— but he always looks to her when he needs an opinion that isn’t biased to one faction. After all, she had spent her early life being a traitor to many; Bucky isn’t so naïve to think that one day, this woman won’t betray him, but now that he has her in his ranks, he’ll make use of her snake-tongue for the better.

 

After all, she does _owe_ him.

 

“I think associating yourself with someone like Stark is bad news,” she says point-blank, her eyes glinting emerald as the blaze of the fire lick high into the night sky. It’s no doubt that their celebration is heard loud and clear throughout the kingdom, no matter how far out they’ve set their camp. Come morning, they tread to the castle. Bucky tosses back what little ale is left inside his goblet and belches as quietly as he can, before nodding at Natasha.

 

He knows she’s right, up to some aspect of the alliance. But they’ve won, already, and Bucky wants to bathe in the excellence and greed Howard Stark indulged in after he killed Bucky’s father and left Bucky’s home and kingdom to rot with no guiding hand to help them from their ruin.

 

Bucky still shivers at the thought of being overrun by HYDRA after their father and King had been killed, the ensuing torture he had to go through before he could assume the throne, the blood he’d had to spill, the madness that overwrought him in his quest to regaining his birthright. Steve’s screams at night, so loud and full of pain, he’d been such a small child— Bucky didn’t have it in his power to _save_ him, after Howard Stark plunged them into absolute darkness.

 

So Bucky just laughs, a little bit inebriated from drink, from power, from victory, “Marriage does a man good, did you not hear?”

 

Natasha’s eyebrows tick up, the only evidence of her surprise. “You plan to marry the Stark heir?”

 

He certainly won’t let his brother be sullied by a marriage treaty with the rat bastard’s spawn, that’s for sure.

 

“Maybe have them carry my bastard,” Bucky hums as he leans back on a thick wooden post, “I have a litany of plans for the Stark monarch.”

 

The Russian nods tightly at that, because she has no other choice but to follow him, no matter what she may think. If he notices her staring at him intently for the rest of the night, he doesn’t speak of it. He doesn’t know _why_ she’s doing it, but Bucky knows it’s partly because she doesn’t agree with his decisions.

 

But Bucky’s thought about it.

 

To kill the heir won’t bring him any satisfaction. And he’s already killed Howard Stark, so it won’t make any difference if he ends Stark’s spawn as soon as Bucky lays eyes on them, but to prolong the heir’s suffering under Bucky’s tutelage as Bucky had suffered for Howard’s transgressions puts a smile on his face that he can’t quite shake off.

 

If Howard had still been alive, Bucky would have told him that he should have killed Bucky beside his father.

 

He knows that the madness inside him, this dark need for inflicting pain and suffering, is Howard Stark’s fault. And it only seems fair to share it with the man’s kin.

 

Bucky smiles as his fellow men dance around the fire, Steve bumbling as he twists a lady knight around, so innocent and free from all the darkness Howard Stark had dealt their family.

 

**

The morning comes and Natasha rides alongside him on her brown steed, a mare who has been unnamed for the duration of its life. Bucky doesn’t claim to know what goes on through Natasha’s mind, but she is as unattached as they come. He doesn’t know if it’s deliberate or not.

 

Steve falls behind to guard their flank, which is queer to say the least, because the man almost always leads their troop. But today, as they come near the kingdom’s gates, guarded heavily by knights in white and gold, their swords so obviously gilded with some form of alloyed gold, heads bent down from exhaustion. Bucky feels pride run down his spine— the Stark knights, while formidable in battle, are fallible. There is an entourage waiting for them, there, and as they approach, Bucky’s eyes roam to watch for the heir he is to be bound with, and with an inward snicker, Bucky thinks of the person to be his bed warmer, a consort of the lowest level.

 

There are exactly three horses and six guards, and in the middle of it all is a pale man with a bald head, his beard thick and Bucky’s never seen him before, though if his information is right, this is the King’s Prime Minister, Lord Stane. Another man with a full head of hair turns his bright blue eyes towards Bucky, and for a moment, Bucky is disappointed to think that this may be the Stark heir, but the streaks of white beside his temples say differently. This man is too old to be the Stark heir— they say that the heir is a few years younger than Bucky himself, so it cannot be this squirrelly man on an equally squirrelly horse.

 

Bucky lifts one gloved hand to halt his own cortège.

 

“Welcome, Lord James,” the man with the bald head says amicably, voice devoid of all warmth, and Bucky understands. He did, after all, ruin their empire. Bucky nods at them and then surveys the last person who sits on the black horse, a well-worn scabbard on their hip.

 

Bucky deduces that this is the Stark heir.

 

His eyes start from the scabbard, which is long and majestic at the man’s hip, making its way up the young body, before landing on the man’s blank face. His entourage murmur at the Stark heir, because by _God_ , the man _is_ as beautiful as the gossips say, if not more so. His hair is tucked into a traditional war braid, and Bucky recognizes it as the Carbonell war braid, a style that had long since died out since the last warrior fell in battle _years_ ago. A circlet sits on his head, gold, dainty and with the red diamond placed delicately and starkly on his dark hair, offsetting the darkness of his features. His face is soft but not without its hostility, pink lips and bronze skin, his eyebrows drawn low over his black, black eyes. He looks just like the fallen king, Bucky thinks giddily.

 

“We have come to sign the treaty,” Bucky begins, watching the heir intently as Bucky’s horse trots forward, a twin to Stark’s own mare, and Stark’s black eyes meet his, the man’s dark eyelashes making his gaze more severe and hauntingly beautiful.

 

Stark flashes him a shark-like smile, so like his father, and tips his chin up. _Haughty_ , Bucky thinks severely, _I am ecstatic to fuck that pride out of your body_.

 

“So you have.” Stark says diplomatically, his voice low and pleasant, and before Bucky could say anything else, the man maneuvers his mare to face the glinting castle, and it sets Bucky on edge, how easily this man has put his back towards him, like he isn’t scared of Bucky, or just  _stupid_ and naive as these royalties come. 

 

Nonetheless, he follows.

 

The Stark castle is impressive, if Bucky lets himself be honest. Though he hasn’t seen a courtyard or a training ground yet, he’s impressed by the sheer wealth the castle boasts. Pure marble, white and untainted, golden walls, thick, rich red drapes. As Stark walks in front of him, Bucky can’t help but to stand at awe; the castle he had lived in certainly wasn’t this luxurious or _comfortable_ , and Bucky is slowly beginning to like the notion of living here for the rest of his rule over his kingdoms.

 

Natasha carefully doesn’t go near the walls, and windows, cautious as usual, her hands tucked neatly on top of the small of her back. She’s watching Stark intently, and Bucky had caught her looking around once or twice, her shoulders shifting in anticipation. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he’d think she was thinking that something’s going to attack them from the walls.

 

While they certainly are at a disadvantage, the castle being a huge grey area for them, but they aren’t exactly creatures that will go down so easily. And judging by the taut line of the two other men with Stark, and the tense, defensive walks Stark’s guards have taken, they know just who they’re up against. Bucky feels the thrill of it all—having this once all powerful sovereign under his thumb, shaking at the mere sight of it— more often than not, it’s what follows him in his sleep, now, no longer his screams, nor his brother’s. Not Howard Stark’s face, not anymore.

 

Stark pauses and tilts his head to look over his shoulder, and Bucky could see the long sweep of his eyelashes, unwittingly sultry and dangerous. Bucky swallows quietly; Stark is proving to be every bit like the tales make him out to be— bronze skinned and beautiful, meek and ethereal. It still surprises Bucky that the man wasn’t vanishing into thin air; it’s as if Stark was some otherworldly being that should just dissipate if someone touched him.

 

Edwin Jarvis—the man with the vivid blue eyes— moves to open the huge oak doors, dark and ominous. This must be the war room, Bucky surmises, and for all his previous dispositions about the Stark lineage, he knows that Howard Stark was a man of tactical brilliance. To see his war room is to see the insides of so many wars that he had won, whether it be for a noble cause or, as it always is, a plunderous and evil cause.

 

Stark glides towards the dark cathedra at the head of the war room and sits himself upon it, and Bucky sets his eyes upon him. He is too small to own that throne, but still, with the man’s arms placed on the arms of the chair, he looks like he belongs there. Bucky hungrily watches long, lithe legs cross over each other, and Stark motions to the seats left unoccupied.

 

He smiles, and it’s a small, beautiful smile, “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

 

Bucky grins, “Oh, I will,”

 

Stark only hums as a reply, and then he nods at Edwin Jarvis, who tips his head respectively, exiting the room with Obadiah in tow. The guards never leave, and Bucky is about to open his mouth when the same woman who had brought him the message, the one with the light red hair, appears from the doorway, Obadiah and the man with vivid eyes following closely, their shoulders tense and their faces pinched. The woman's hair is in the same braid as it was before. So, Bucky was right— she wasn’t a knight, but she _is_ something. A squire, maybe?

 

“This is my senior advisor, Lady Virginia,” Stark introduces without the aid of his announcer, and Bucky is surprised at how _humble_ this man is, not like his father, who'd been drunk on his _greed_. But Bucky shouldn’t think much of it; the Stark heir is, afterall, rumoured to be kind and gracious.

 

Lady Virginia comes to the war table and spreads a singular parchment there, with something enclosed in on it. Bucky waves at Steve, who walks forward with his head tipped high, looking down on his nose at Stark. He picks up the parchment and brings it closer to his body, his fingers tracing the delicate writing.

 

Stark taps his fingers against his chest and speaks, “That is our proposed treaty, but of course, you are welcome to amend it.”

 

Bucky slams his hands onto the table and growls, looking Stark in the eye, who flinches lightly, and Bucky sneers at him. So, he is as weak as the legends say— Bucky doesn’t mind. He has no need for a disobedient bitch, only one who is warm enough to warm his cock.

 

Lady Virginia and the knights move, but Stark raises one elegant hand, stopping them from initiating an attack towards Bucky and his entourage. Edwin Jarvis’ hands move from his front to his sides, no doubt to unconceal the knives Bucky knows the man is keeping there, and Obadiah is tense but makes no move to attack Bucky. A smart man.

 

“You are _mine_. Spoils,” Bucky says gruffly, because that _is_ what Stark _is_ . He isn’t a king, not anymore, not with Bucky having cut off Stark’s father’s head, not when he is now the most powerful ruler in the whole continent. This _brat_ has no room to tell Bucky what to do.

 

He points harshly at Stark, whose eyes are wide and fearful, and Bucky decides he looks just like his father when he is scared shitless, “You are _my_ spoils of war.”

 

Stark puts down his hand and clenches it. “I see,” he says diplomatically, then he meets Bucky’s eyes, before tilting his head to the side in a submissive gesture. This pleases Bucky greatly, the Stark heir’s sudden submissiveness. Everything, from the hair on this boy’s head to the thick curtains that hang over the huge stained windows is _Bucky’s_ now, and there is nothing for them to do. He is the High Sovereign now, just like Howard Stark had been.

 

The man then stands, and his stark red cape follows like a sheet of blood, dancing at his feet as he steps down from the throne. His circlet glints against the light, and Bucky’s eyes follow it and the man respectively, until the Stark heir is beside him.

 

Steve tenses and the treaty crumples within his fist.

 

From this distance, the man smells like spearmint and something that is familiar to Bucky, but he can’t quite put his finger over it. Bucky smiles and reaches for Stark’s hip, where the scabbard rests, but Stark twists gracefully, giving Bucky’s hand the other side of him, his huge hand grabbing the soft swell where Stark’s hip bones are found.

 

Bucky squeezes possessively, because that’s all Stark is, now. A possession for Bucky to fawn over and show off, like the red diamond atop his pretty head.

 

He blinks down at Bucky, “The only thing I ask of,” Stark breathes hardily, and Bucky almost pulls the heir’s body down on Bucky’s lap then and there, “is that my subjects remain unharmed and taken care of.”

 

Bucky sees Obadiah look away, closing his eyes as he refuses to look at Stark practically whoring himself out for his kingdom, and Edwin Jarvis bites his lips, a minute action to show his discomfort and anger, and the Lady Virginia clasps her hand over the dagger that sits on her skirts. They can do nothing, Bucky thinks blithely. They can posture and think lowly of Bucky, but in the end, it’s Bucky who has won. It’s Bucky who has the rights to the Stark heir.

 

There’s nothing in Bucky’s mind but the fact that his hand looks absurdly big on the jut of Stark’s hip, and the warmth coming from the heir’s skin is heating Bucky’s hand and body.

 

Bucky hums and decides, that just this once, he will be greedy.

 


	2. King for a Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello !! thank you to the blokes who commented on the last chapter, you are all sweeties. im procrastinating.. this whole writing thing is pretty taxing. concrit is very welcome. drag me by my hair. (not really). ideas are welcome 
> 
> lets make buckytony rise on twitter [@maroonedstark](https://twitter.com/maroonedstark)

Tony doesn’t cry the moment he steps outside of the war room, no. He picks his head up and marches to the throne room, eager to see his father’s throne, eager to sit on it— in the least to _feast_ his eyes upon it. Barnes’ hand on his hip still is a cold spot on his body, and Tony refuses to acknowledge it and the _disgust_ it made him feel as Barnes touched him like he—like he _owned_ Tony.

 

He doesn’t wait for the guards to open the doors for him, he just bursts in and runs towards the throne and _thinks_ , if his father had won, if his father _chose_ to crown him as the rightful king of York, then he’d be _crowned_ instead of forcibly married to a fucking barbarian such as the Winter Soldier. Tony’s hands press against the arms of the throne and bites off a snarling cry, letting his head hang in between his shoulders.

 

Whoring himself out for the sake of his kingdom isn’t a _thing_ he’s invented. There have been many, many monarchs before him who have been pawned off as less than whores, and Tony isn’t _stupid_ , he keeps telling himself. He’s not stupid, he’s the son of the greatest fucking monarch this continent has seen, he’s the only _son_ of the knight who had dominated the battlefield, who stood by his father as the _Queen Regnant_ , he’s _more_ than a pawn.

 

 _Keep telling yourself that_ , his mind says bitterly, _maybe it’ll make you feel better when he ruts into you like a bitch in heat on your mother’s deathbed._  

 

Tony shakes his head and dismisses the guards looking at him warily from where they’re stationed near the doors, his wrists weak and almost giving in under his weight as he leans more into the throne. He knows he might look like a fool, heaving dryly like this into his father’s gilded throne, but as the huge doors of the throne room slams closed as quietly as heavy alloyed doors could, he falls onto his knees in front of his father’s cathedra, not quite sobbing yet, but feeling so, so alone.

 

His mother’s throne is placed near to Tony’s father’s, and Tony lifts his head, looking at it somberly. If karma has its kiss for him, then he wouldn’t be able to sit on his mother’s throne, either. The Winter Soldier seemed adamant in just… making Tony into some sort of lowly harem consort.

 

 _That is not who I was meant to be_ , Tony thinks to himself as he stands on wobbly knees, swaying towards his mother’s throne. He drags one shaking hand over it and pressing his fingers over the red diamonds decorating the arch of the chair, glinting dully in the firelight.

 

He turns to face the rest of the room, closing his eyes and _wondering_ , wondering how his mother felt when she’d been crowned Queen Regnant.

 

 _Strong_ , a voice so unlike his mother’s empirical, lilting voice whispers into his ears, _proud_ , the voice continues, and Tony can’t help but feel as if he was being suffocated, thrust into a role that he never wanted.

 

 _Hopeful_ comes from the depths of his mind, and it sounds too quiet, as if the voice was unsure, and Tony’s never heard his mother sound _meek_ in the duration of his nineteen years of life, but here he is, hallucinating his mother’s voice as he pretends to be her, standing in front of _her_ throne.

 

When Tony finally sinks into the seat, he doesn’t admit that he finds it comfortable.

 

**

Tony’s instructed Jarvis to close up his workshop, and to leave all the weapons he’d been creating in the depths of it, for no one to touch, no one to use or see.

 

He hasn’t _created_ since his father died, which is less than a week, and his fingers are already getting itchy, the need to wrap his hands around a mallet and bend a metal to his will, strong and loud in the back of his head, but he pushes it all back as the Winter Soldier’s entourage piles into the dining room, their scent thick and battle-hardy, and Tony’s never smelt anything like it before. Not even on Rhodey. It smells like weariness and danger, and coupled with the bloodthirsty looks on their grimy faces, it makes Tony almost flinch away.

 

Tony’s eyes land from man to woman to man again, and stops when blue eyes catches his, and Tony’s never seen a shade of blond so _disgusting_ it’s almost brown.

 

Of course, Tony’s extended the castle’s utilities to them, limiting the staff that attends to them to only the battle-hardy ones, like Barton, whose eyes narrow as he follows in behind the red head—the lightness of her eyes and the shade of her hair striking a chord within Tony—and Tony’s own advisor, who he calls Pepper, who is still prim and beautiful even after all of this.

 

There is a spread of everything they have on the table, savoury and sweet to appeal to the barbarian’s tastes, which, if Tony has read and _deduced_ right, isn’t much. Barbarians such as the Winter Soldier don’t have a tongue or head for sophistication, and Tony can and _must_ lower himself.

 

For King, for Nation.

 

Tony stands up and Barnes looks at him, and then moves slowly to pick up one gilded spoon and bringing it up to the light, humming thoughtfully. His arms are great and corded with muscles that could easily break Tony’s neck with a simple twist, but Tony doesn’t falter with his gaze as Barnes’ eyes lower back towards him.

 

His face contorts into a dirty and ugly sneer, “We have no need for _golden_ spoons,” he says lowly, and promptly bending the cutlery in his hand as if it were nothing but a blade of grass.

 

Tony keeps his face carefully blank, and wonders what kind of execution his father would order upon this barbarian’s head if he were alive, “What would you rather, then?” he asks monotonously, and Barnes’ sneer shifts into one with a smile, still as ugly as before, and beckons Tony towards him, the arm made of metal curling and pulsing with power as it curls its fingers towards Tony.

 

He’s never seen anything like it before— a fully functioning metal arm. Was alchemy involved in creating _that_ weapon?

 

“Did your bastard father not teach you manners, child?” Barnes barks, unkind, and Tony is reminded of tutors and their sharp nails, _pinching_ , telling him he wasn’t _good enough_ or _smart enough_ , or that he’ll never be half the king Howard Stark was.

 

_Look at where I am now._

 

“Come.”

 

A retort stops short from Tony’s tongue, the need to lash out making the tips of his fingers tingle as he makes his way towards Barnes, who is still at the end of the table, his entourage spread behind him like quiet statues, their hands akimbo and unlike the tightened shoulders of Tony’s own guards, fear seeping from their statures, such a stark difference from Barnes’ own men.

 

The brute curls his metal arm around Tony’s waist and tugs him in, and Tony is met with thick muscles won from wars and brutality,  the man’s _putrid_ smell making Tony almost, _almost_ gag. But instead he braces one hand on the man’s chest to keep his face at a safe distance, and Barnes laughs at that.

 

“When I am crowned king, I want these melted and made into weaponry,” he says thoughtfully, and Tony’s body locks up at that, the thought of another _war_ , the thought of his men, his fellowmen being used as Barnes’ _pawns_ , and this is not what they _agreed on_ (you agreed on _nothing_ )—

 

Barnes laughs, and it jostles Tony’s body, and suddenly, he is made privy to the fact that he is so, so much _smaller_ than Barnes, who _owns_ him, and everything that his name holds.

 

“I want a _sword_ made from your gold.” Barnes whispers into his ear, so intimate, his breath hot and disgusting against Tony’s clean skin, one of his hands coming up to cup Tony’s jaw, his rough hand pressing the hairs of Tony’s beard into his skin, “You will make it happen, won’t you?”

 

Tony doesn’t speak. If he does, he’ll just tear this rat fucking bastard a new one, so he just nods, as much as he could, given the man’s hand like a vice on his jaw, like a servile spouse, and the sudden rise of _fear_ and the need to _kill_ curls low in his belly, and Tony doesn’t let it creep up his throat like it so wants to, but it’s a near thing. Throwing up on this caveman won’t make a difference towards how he looks and smells, anyways.

 

“Or do you not handle these things?” Barnes pushes Tony away jarringly, his huge fucking hands gripping at Tony’s hips, eyes bearing into him, and they’re _wild_.

 

They’re wild and unlike anything Tony’s seen before, almost like twin blue fires in the middle of a darkened hallway, and it scares him like those fires had when he’d been a child, but he has no mother to come crying to, now. No mother who brandishes her sword and comes to scour the hallways with his hand in hers, no mother to protect him.

 

No one moves, because they _can’t_ , and Tony is hit with the realisation that he is _alone_.

 

In a moment of pure fear, from all the _suddenness_ and boldness and violence Tony isn’t accustomed to, his eyes flicker towards Obadiah, his father’s _Prime Minister_ , the man behind Tony’s father more often than not, the man Tony _believed_ in, with his strong hands and the promise to _protect_ , and then towards Jarvis, who has his fists clenched, his teeth obviously grinding together, eyes so vividly blue that it almost drowns Tony’s fears.

 

Barnes’ head swivels after Tony’s line of sight, “The bald man,” he says quietly, to himself, and to Tony, who is more like a doll in his arms than anything, “You,” he tips his chin towards Obadiah, the hand gripping Tony’s jaw sliding away and beckoning at Obadiah, and Tony berates himself. _Idiot child_ , he hisses to himself.

 

Obadiah, with his liquid eyes, steps up and says in the most steely voice that he can, “Weaponry,” he begins deliberately, looking at Tony and then at Barnes, who nods, “for a war?”

 

Barnes shrugs, “Weapons aren’t used _just_ for wars, are they? You should know that, bald man.”

 

“Indeed,” Obadiah tips his head down in a uncharacteristic show of submissiveness, and Tony feels Barnes purr in satisfaction underneath the hand that Tony’s put on his chest.

 

“You make it happen, then. My men deserve the best York can give, do they not?” The words are said slowly until the end is almost made up of growls, and Tony turns his head away from the man’s dank breath, his vision tunnelling as Barnes’ arm wraps tighter around him.

 

“And I…” the man says wistfully, lowly, “A sword, when we are wed.”

 

He looks at Tony when he says this, and Tony swallows around a lump in his throat, and nods. The voice he thinks he has is gone, the voice that wants to shout and scream and curse at Barnes— he can’t find it in himself to speak when Barnes can so easily bend his body and rip Tony’s neck apart with his teeth, and Tony’s _read_ about him, what he can do.

 

This man is a cautionary tale, and Tony is experiencing the horror from the best seat in the theatre. Virginia and Rhodey were right when they told Tony life isn’t as it is in his books, in the tales his handmaids kept feeding him.

 

Obadiah’s resounding, “I shall, Lord Barnes.” angers Tony.

 

Fucking _asshole_ , he thinks dourly, but he’s useless like this, he’s powerless. He’s a child, though a king, but he’s _scared_ . He’s not prideful enough to not admit that to himself. But Obadiah just _surrendering_ like this? To aid in creating _more_ wars? Tony should have put a blade between this fucker’s tits the moment he heard of Howard’s death.

 

Barnes nods at that, satisfied. He motions to the man with the darkened blond hair, and the man motions towards the spread before all of them, a motion so grand that Tony would have never noticed his barbarism if not for the way the man dressed and smelled.  

 

“Take away these _cutlery_ , then,” The blond says in a commanding voice, and there’s something there, like he’s not so used to ordering people around, and Tony spares a look at him before Barnes herds him to the head of the table, sitting down on the seat meant for Tony’s father, leaving Tony standing.

 

Tony dips low, as is etiquette to being dismissed by a superior, but Barnes just growls at him, and maybe this man’s grown tired of speaking, because he just pats his thunderous thigh and looks at Tony with those wild, icy eyes, and waits.

 

Oh. _Oh_. He wants Tony to sit on his lap.

 

His father’s never done that before, not even to the concubines he invited over to supper back in the days when Tony had been young. So for Barnes to ask that of Tony… it’s degrading, to say the least. Not even common concubines had been treated like this.

 

He looks around the room, and everyone is looking at him, but Tony is not Barnes’ _consort_ yet, so he gives another curtsy, and sits on the seat to the man’s left.

 

Barnes growls, and his blond counterpart looks at him, “Why do you disrespect him?” the blond asks blithely, harshly, and Tony just looks at the man, blinking slowly. His subjects resume their seats after Tony’s taken his, and it makes _Tony_ purr in pride because after all the humiliation Barnes has put him in, _Tony’s_ men are still loyal to him.

 

He is still his people’s king, and Tony holds onto the thought as their guests begin to merrily tear through the food Tony’s provided, their cheeks bulging and smiles wide. It warms him like the open fire of a funeral pyre, numbs him and reassures him of _who_ he is.

 

This _boy_ playing at king, small, calloused hands from handling a sword that wasn’t meant to be his, a child, still—the people here, who’s seen him grow, they _trust_ him.

 

Tony doesn’t quite cry because they shouldn’t. Trust him, that is. He doesn’t know if he can handle the burden of their trust and hope in him, the _dream_ that Tony could talk or snark himself out of this god forsaken predicament. He isn’t his mother, and he sure as _hell_ isn’t his father.

 

He is proud to have such loyal men, but he isn’t _worth_ it. His father wasn’t worth these people, either, and yet, here they hope for a better tomorrow in the hands of Howard Stark’s son, who stood ignorantly as his father waged war after war.

 

The man known famously as the Winter Soldier huffs through his nose but lets Tony be, tearing into the turkey before him, with his _bare hands_.

 

Tony closes his eyes, sighs, opens them back again, and reaches for his goblet of wine.

 

**

 

His father’s councilors have always been a bit slow in the head. Indignant towards change, and scared of Tony Stark’s youth.

 

Now that he’s staring at the crowd of old men, all pale and leathery skinned, and they all squabble over Tony, the disaster that was the dinner, and he can still feel Barnes’ hand on his chin, the man’s tight grip around his waist. He drags a hand over his beard, the action now tainted from when Barnes grasped at him tightly, and he feels dirty as he scratches his short nails over the hairs on his cheeks. He pulls his hand away and stares at it, confused and relieved that no dirt has come off his face. 

 

A shiver passes through him at the thought. 

 

Obadiah is trying to settle the councilmen down, his hands hovering mid air as they all try to speak over each other, like ducks squabbling over pieces of bread. Pepper’s gone to see the Breukelenians off, having tired of the glitz and glamour of the only home Tony’s ever known.

 

He almost takes offense— these walls are warm and filled with memories that they’ll never take away from him. But it also holds the cold strikes of a father who’d only ever smiled at him when he had a sword in his hands, so Tony just laces his fingers under his chin as he watches the gaggle of old farts fight over what Tony’d just done. 

 

“This is not a political marriage, this is a _hostage situation_!” One man says fervently, and Tony can’t, for the life of him, care about this man’s name. He used to dream of casting off these old fucks to the pasture once he was crowned king. He’s almost happy that this is going to be Barnes’ court.

 

He digs his cheek into a knuckle, eyes picking a place on the far wall and watching, as if the walls will come alive at any moment. 

“We must fight back,” another man says, his hair tight against his nape, sweat accumulating on the top of his lip. Have the windows been left closed? Tony casts a look at the wide windows of the council room, effectively ignoring the man with the ponytail, but he just rags on, “My Liege, we cannot just _take_ this!”

 

“But what else can we do?” A tall old man says lightly, his hands folded in front of him, “We either comply or—” he pauses, as if in great pain. Tony almost scoffs. These men have never been to war. They’ve never felt pain or hunger. “Or they’d kill the lot of us.”

 

Obadiah motions for them to calm themselves, but it seems to be all in vain as one man stands all of a sudden, “We can take the king and hide him away!” he says, a smile on his face, like a particularly happy fool.

 

“We can _kill_ Barnes!”

 

 _Kill Barnes_ ? And have the most notoriously dangerous enemies to the crown have _more_ reason to plunder and destroy their empire?

 

Why do they all talk about Tony like he isn’t there?

 

“Are you that fucking stupid?” Tony says easily from his perch on his father’s chair, and the court quiets immediately, probably shocked into silence at the sheer numbness in their young King’s voice, “Kill _Barnes_. Hide me away.” he laughs to himself, unfolding the hands under his chin and then slowly standing up, “You should be court jester, old man.”

 

And then he exits, his cape billowing limply behind him. He waves off the guards who try to open the doors for him, opening the doors lavishly with both hands, the huge oak doors slamming against marble so hard the stone seemed to have cracked.

 

As he walks down the hallway, the voices resume, now more agitated, more _scared_.

 

He’s done everything he can. He’s giving away everything that he is. He’s not going to be like his mother, who was a coward. He’s not going to be his father, who’d killed in cold blood.

 

Funny, that when he’d finally become his own person (he thinks he does. Children tend to think that) he’s giving it away for the sake of King and Nation.

 

Funny, isn’t it?

 

**

 

Pepper is the one to tell him that there’s going to be a wedding.

 

She’s been tasked to see through with it, being the only one in this goddamned kingdom who actually knows what she’s doing, but they are to integrate Barnes’ Breukelen culture with Tony’s Manahachtanienk traditions, which means… he doesn’t know _what_ it means, he’s never been married before, let alone to someone like _Barnes._

 

Tony’s gotten to the spirits, now, in his room, waiting for word on both Rhodey and the siege of war that’s stopped abruptly— he knows Barnes left a trail of destruction behind him, and while Tony has _lost_ to him, there are still factions out there gunning for Barnes’ head. But Tony can’t just wish that someone will come up and kill the Winter Soldier. People have tried, and people have failed. It’s be a long fucking while until someone actually injure Lord Barnes, let alone kill him. It’s a pipe dream, but it’s a good dream, nonetheless.

 

His dressing gown is open at the chest as he downs the spirit from the bottle itself, belching loudly as the burn settles at the bottom of his stomach. It’s never too early to become an alcoholic harem whore, Tony thinks as Pepper moves from his door to the foot of his bed, still in her gowns but her face is gaunt, as if she’s the one being married off to an animal such as the Winter Soldier.

 

Tony crosses his legs and waves the bottle towards her. “Drink, dear Advisor?”

 

Pepper shakes her head and sits on his bed, the mattress denting under her gentle weight. It’s a bastardised version of when Pepper used to sit by him on his bed, she, a new squire, and Tony, a prince-in-training, reading books that didn’t actually tell them anything beyond fairy tales.

 

He closes his eyes and takes another swig. The night is quiet, but not because everything is in peace, but rather, because everyone is both stagnant and scared witless with fear, the need to hide strong within them. Tony doesn’t blame his people. Fear is palpable, now, in this castle, in a way that it hasn’t been since his mother’s death, before Stane stopped supporting his father.

 

Tony smiles as he recites a story he knows by heart, whispered to him by maids who didn't know any better, by people who'd grown tired of him so they'd just _scare_ him to drive him away, “ _There was a boy… eyes as pale as snow, teeth as white as bone_ …” Pepper visibly cringes from it, closing her eyes tightly, but Tony continues,

 

“ _They say they’d taken him from his home, the plates shattered and bathed in blood… and the winds howl his haunting song, claiming, ‘Oh, dearest one, the cold has been waiting…’_ ”

 

“Stop,” Pepper breathes, curling her small, calloused hand into a fist against her skirt.

 

Tony doesn’t look at her as he stands from his bed and stumbles over to the window, picking up _Viernes_ , who sings sadly in his palm, opening the windows fully and letting the wind hit his face—his father, too, had always been a dramatic man— if he chose to look down, he’d see nothing but the dark forest green of the trees shrouded with black in the night, but up here, where the winds now sing a different song for Tony, he couldn’t find it in him to _care_.

 

They’ve _lost_ , heavens above, they’ve _lost_.

 

He bites his lip and takes another swig, before pointing _Viernes_ out the window, towards the stars, towards where he hopes his mother is. “To the new King,” he says to himself, quietly.

 

Pepper’s voice is youthful and quiet as she whispers back, “Hear, hear. To King Stark.”

 

Tony watches the night sky twinkle beautifully, a view he’s loved since he was a child, the only view he’d had, really, since his parents chose to not let him out of the castle. There are worlds upon worlds out there, Tony knows as much. Maybe in one other world, he is happy with his Rhodey and his Pepper and his Jarvis, not trapped and _infantilised_ as he is, here, treated as little more than cattle for breeding.

 

“Rhodey would know what to do,” he says weakly, “but he’s not here.”

 

“Yes.” Pepper concedes, “But I’m still here. Jarvis… Rhodey…” she pauses and looks down at her hands, which were folded on top of her lap, the sound of rustling makes Tony think of the treaty that blond man had crumpled in his huge fist, “even Obadiah.”

 

Tony scoffs, “ _Obadiah_. That spineless parasite?” he laughs until his chuckles becomes soft chuffs of breath. “With the way he went belly up for Barnes?”

 

“Tony…”

 

“He is a fucking _disgrace_ to my court.” Tony tosses the last of the spirits back, “If I could, then I’d send him off to get his head chopped clean off.” He sways and faces Pepper, humming under his breath, bringing his rapier up like a conductor and then swinging it harshly down, _Viernes_ singing like the blade of a guillotine sailing down, down, until heads roll.

 

It should make him feel powerful, but it doesn’t.

 

“But you can’t,” Pepper’s eyes meet his in the dark, arching a challenging eyebrow at him, the way she does when she finds Tony being particularly obtuse. She raises the fist that had been on her lap, showing him the crumpled treaty. “So what are you going to do about it?”

 

“You know what, Pottsy?” Tony hums, turning so his ass is planted against the windowsill, the dressing gown splitting in the middle, as he crosses his legs languidly, sad that he’s blown through the booze in his hand, “I don’t know. I’m not ready for this, Pepper.” It hurts to say it out loud, even with a person he trusts as much as Pepper, “I don’t know.”

 

He doesn’t even register that he’s walking towards her as Pepper takes his body in her arms, _Viernes_ falling from his grip, the bottle falling soundlessly on the furs at his feet, one of his closest friends letting him drape his head over her lap, beginning to hum as she thumbs through the long locks of Tony’s hair, pulling it out of its tight braids, revealing errant curls that he’d gotten from his mother, and he whines, curling into a foetal position. He can let himself be vulnerable, here, with her.

 

“I miss Rhodey,” Tony cries quietly, and he could bet he looks all of his nineteen years, “I miss him, why did he have to go to war?”

 

Pepper sniffs and Tony doesn’t realise she’s crying until her tears hit the side of his head, matting his hair together, and Tony’s own tears are falling into her royal blue gown, into the parchment that has found itself tucked under his cheek, turning it almost brown under all the tears he’d been holding since his _mother_ died. God, he’s drunk and he’s crying, and his _father_ is dead, and come the next week, he’ll be married to some fucking caveman, and he’ll lose his crown.

 

He won’t be _Anthony Edward Stark_ anymore, he’ll just be the Winter Soldier’s official cockwarmer. By God, his father would have screamed himself hoarse if he were still alive.

 

Tony curls into Pepper’s lap further, whimpering for James Rhodes, who left them for the war, like his father had— _this war has taken everything from me_ —and tries to not think about how his mother had been called a cockwarmer, too.

 

**

Bucky watches the Stark heir for most of the time that he spends in the castle. They had just gotten back from the camp to tell the rest of their men about the wedding that’s been set to happen in a few days, and Stark is being buzzed around by men and women, his eyes that sharp black that they’d been when Bucky saw him for the first time, his red cape gone, leaving him in a pale blue shirt that opened at the chest, his trousers high and making his legs look so much longer.

 

He isn’t blind to the reality of _who_ he is being married to. Stark is beautiful and servile, and everything Bucky would have wanted for a consort.

 

Natasha is the only one to come back to the castle with him today, and she keeps to herself, mostly a few feet behind Bucky, too quiet for anyone, if they weren’t Bucky, that is. Now, her face is blank as they watched Stark’s servants prepare for the wedding, graceful like a practiced dance, sophisticated in a way that Bucky’s only ever seen in the balls his father and mother took him to when he’d been younger.

 

No one meets their eyes, and Bucky quickly becomes accustomed to being served hand and foot by these servants, their faces pinched as if they’d rather die than serve Bucky and Natasha, but if that happened, Stark’s eyes would find theirs, and they’d shuffle off or quickly turn docile, and Stark would again look away.

 

Stark has been wearing his hair in war braids for days.

 

It insults Bucky, the insinuation of it, but the man’s hair looks so lovely in those complicated plaits that he only found himself admiring the perplexing twists that tugged at Stark’s skin and made him look sharper, harsher— and yes, Bucky hasn’t seen the man out of the braids, so far.

 

He knows he will, once they share a bed. Bucky wonders how Stark would act, once Bucky’s gotten him in their _marital_ bed. He surely would be a hellion, at first. All these snotty types usually are, but in the end, they all melt in his hands. Enemies or lovers. This time, enemy _and_ lover.

 

The wait is nothing to Bucky. They had staked out Howard Stark’s carriage, which was going North, for sixteen days, not to kill him, no. Bucky had wanted the kill to be with faces met.

 

He’d spent most of his life locked in a room, freezing half to death, arm mutilated by the same man who’d taken away his father. He spent _years_ killing people in the name of the enemy, he’d spent most his _life_ becoming a man worthy of ruling his father’s lands. Waiting has been a lesson that’s been beaten into Bucky by harshness and violence and _words_ , waiting is _nothing_.

 

Especially when the prize is so sweet.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Obadiah, with a squire right next to him, talking a mile a minute; of course, Bucky might not be an expert in things that require diplomacy such as being a reigning monarch, but he knows that just because he’s taken over this land doesn’t mean trades and the rest of the world stops moving.

 

Bucky growls low in his throat when Obadiah’s orientation shifts to make his way towards him, and Natasha pulls herself up to her full height, stepping away from the shadows to join Bucky as the man smiles jauntily and spreads his arm in greeting.  

 

“Lord Barnes,” he says smoothly, and Bucky glowers at him. The man might be submissive and what Bucky wants in the people of York, but he has no business talking with Bucky unless Bucky had talked to him, first.

 

The man falters when Bucky doesn’t speak, and Natasha tilts her head from where she’s standing beside Bucky, her green eyes visibly inquisitive.

 

“Ah,” Obadiah recovers quickly, “The Coronation is coming along quickly. And the gold is being melted as we speak.”

 

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. He _is_ to be coronated, not only wed to the Stark heir. It should do him well to remember that. He is to be King.

 

Finding that he doesn’t give a week’s worth of damns, he looks to Natasha and grunts, before turning his head back towards where Stark is being fitted for his wedding robes in the huge room with too many curtains and plush pillows, a glass of something that looks like blood and moves easily, like water, in Stark’s elegant hands, and Bucky remembers something like that from the first feast they’d held in the dining area when he first came to them. Stark catches his eyes and holds it for a few seconds before breaking it again, moving languidly with the hands that roam freely around his body, like a nubile doll.

 

Natasha and Obadiah are speaking in low tones beside him, but Bucky only looks at Stark, who is chugging down the red contents of the glass, before turning to a handmaid and waving the glass until the woman refills it.

 

He finds himself abandoning Natasha and stalking on over to Stark, who flinches but doesn’t move or scuttle away like a scared animal, but that was maybe partly because of the pins that the people who were fitting him had put on his body, but Stark turns his head away, the long tail of his braid slithering over a thin shoulder.

 

His voice is raspy. He hasn’t spoken in a while—there is no need, now that they are not actively in battle— but he finds himself wanting to say something _now_ , watching the pools of blue swathed around Stark’s body, the long faded colour of the insignia on Breukelen’s flags.

 

If Bucky were to look at the same flag, he’d find it coated in soot and the red blood of his enemies, so he says, “Red,” every single person in the room stops, and Stark still isn’t looking at him, “He’d look good in red.”

 

Obadiah speaks up immediately from behind him, far too near for Bucky’s comfort, and Bucky barely fights off the need to separate this man’s’ head from his body, knowing that he still needs the Prime Minister at least until he’d fully cemented his place in this monarchy. “Immediately, Lord Barnes. Hill! Get the red from the Queen’s—”

 

The people are abuzz again, whispering under their breath, tugging and pulling at Stark, whose eyes snap up towards Stane, his teeth bared in a quiet snarl.

 

“You don’t fucking _touch_ her things,” Stark suddenly pipes up, voice quiet and slurred, but demanding and on the edge of cruel, eyes finally not hazy and so _black_ , and a thrill runs through Bucky’s spine, from anger or arousal, (or _fear_ ; that voice sounds _familiar_ , doesn’t it? Piercing. Commanding.) he isn’t sure, but it definitely isn’t as welcome as Stark thinks it is, because Obadiah sneers, and Bucky finds it much more displeasing, Obadiah’s attitude, so he turns to the man, towering over him greatly. Natasha moves from where she was beside Obadiah to stand by Bucky, her lips thinned and her eyes as dark as his.

 

“Get the red elsewhere.” Bucky says with cold and iron in his voice, brooking no argument, and promising retribution should the man go against him. He could kill Obadiah so, so _quickly_.

 

Stark flinches at his voice, and it rests the blood pulsing through Bucky’s veins, reassured of Stark’s subservience. Obadiah’s mouth opens and closes, but when it finally does shut, he waves his hand, but the people around them are already moving, not waiting for Obadiah’s word. The man’s eyebrows twitch and Bucky watches him. He’s not sure if he hears Stark sigh, but he does something, a small sound that makes Bucky want to turn back to him and _ask_ , but he doesn’t, instead he walks out of the room, leaving his… his _bride_ be.

 

Natasha doesn’t talk until they both clear the hallway past the ballroom, until they’re facing the great lake just outside of the castle, twinkling emerald as the sun sets. She stands a safe distance away from him like she always does, her eyes narrows as she watches the water eat up the sun.

 

Bucky remembers a simpler time, when Steve would make rocks skip, when his father would come home after a fruitful hunt, his mother humming in front of the great fireplace, one of the three hunting dogs sitting by her feet. They’d watch sunsets, too. His father was a lord in his own right, a ruler of their land, which prospered in meat and water, and they didn’t _care_ , not like Stark did about his own crown.

 

He averts his eyes from the rays and watches the soft sway of the water, wondering how such a man like Howard Stark could have crafted a paradise for himself.

 

“Lord Stane is most eager to hold your court,” Natasha says glibly, her hands tucked up high on the small of her back, and maybe, before all this, she’d been a knight. Bucky doesn’t ask her the way she didn’t question his motivation when he massacred the men who held him captive, when he plucked Howard Stark’s tongue out before he severed the man’s head.

 

Bucky doesn’t trust Obadiah—Bucky doesn’t trust anyone who isn’t from his own court— but that goes without saying. Obadiah actively fought against the Breukelens before Bucky had won; to think of even trusting the man is beyond him. But Obadiah is the Prime Minister; he could be replaced, but not without immediate and severe repercussions.

 

Now, the Stark heir is another story completely. Hidden from the world, only a beautiful piece of treasure inside a beautiful castle— there is no one who cares for him enough to be outraged by the thought of him being replaced as king, but there will be people, purists, really, who will go against Bucky’s regime simply because he came from an enemy court. From a _lowly_ court.

 

“He is part of it,” Bucky says lowly, and Natasha hums at that.

 

“What of the advisor?”

 

Bucky shrugs his heavy shoulders. “I have no need of a squire playing at a colt-kneed knight. Stark can keep her as a handmaiden. They are friends, no?”

 

The red haired woman nods and knowingly takes her leave after that, letting Bucky watch the night sky fill with stars. His mind is suddenly bombarded of the dank prison cell he’d been in, the stars barred by thick metal rebar, the screams of his brother muffled by all the stones that covered the place he’d considered his _home_ for years, stones that made Bucky cold to the bones.

 

So he picks up a stone and throws it across the lake with his metal hand.

 

There are no bars to hold him from the stars, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a burning question for yall: should i add mpreg ? because.. im :^/ about it but if i must then i must make major changes. also, constructive criticism ! i love it a lot
> 
> rhodey in the next chapter !! hfslfshf i lov writing some rhodeytony
> 
> come and be buddies pls [@maroonedstark](https://twitter.com/maroonedstark)


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